


lex talionis

by Anonymous



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Knives, Other, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:24:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22835572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: nounthe principle or law of retaliation;as an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.||Fill for prompt of Martin having to listen helplessly while a relative of one of his victims takes their revenge...on Malcolm.((MCD warning only applies if you decide not to acknowledge the alternate, slightly happier ending in 3.))
Relationships: Malcolm Bright/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 84
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [lex talionis [Chinese Translation]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23392642) by [trosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trosa/pseuds/trosa)



> Prompt:  
> A relative of one of Martin’s victims sees Ainsley’s special and correctly deduces that the only thing to garner any sort of emotional response from him is his son. So he kidnaps Malcolm and forces him to call Martin’s cell at Claremont. Martin, of course, picks up because it’s his boy and he has no idea anything is amiss.
> 
> This person proceeds to torture, rape, and then slit Malcolm’s throat before leaving so Martin (and whoever else is listening by now) just basically hears him choking on his own blood. By then the police have traced the call and they save him. Or maybe not 😈
> 
> I just have this image in my head of Martin shaking with rage and helplessness while tears run down his cheeks. Malcolm is probably the only person he would genuinely shed tears over.
> 
> \+ Bonus if at some point the bad guy makes Malcolm beg for his daddy to save him

His sculpture was finally looking just perfect, even without a damn fettling knife, when the phone rang.  
  
“Just in time,” Mr. David said, as flat as he ever was, leaning forward in his chair. “Phone time’s up in five.”  
  
“Five,” Martin repeated, pursing his lips in a displeased little pout as he wiped his hands on his rag. “Come now. That’s my son! You know I’ve been waiting so patiently for him to call back...I can’t have ten? I’ve been such a good boy."  
  
Mr. David tsked, rolled his eyes, and clicked the answer call button on the machine.  
  
“My boy!” Martin greeted, grinning. “How have you been? I’ve been calling all afternoon...can’t pick up the phone for dear old dad anymore, can you?”  
  
The line was quiet, save from something that might have been static. Damn phone, always acting up at the worst times. It’d hung up on them last week, and they’d taken it away and said that counted as his last call. He really wanted to kill them for that, but he even refrained from saying so. See? Good behavior. He's a good man. Sometimes.  
  
He sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “Mr. David, if you could—”  
  
There was a burst of sound on the other side, something like an exhale, and then something that chilled Martin to the bone, made goosebumps prickle his skin under his clothes.  
  
A whimper, so clearly Malcolm’s.  
  
He stopped everything and drew closer to the phone.  
  
“Malcolm?” he asked, much louder.  
  
“Malcolm’s here,” a rough and unfamiliar voice finally replied, “but I’m the one who’ll be doing the talking.”  
  
The sudden, overwhelming fear that flooded Martin, ripping cold and harsh through his veins, nearly brought him to his knees. Mr. David stood up, and Martin, though he knew he wasn’t allowed to touch the phone, slammed his finger against the mute button and hissed, “Call the police. Now.”  
  
Mr. David didn’t hesitate, leaving the door wide open as he left, and neither did Martin as he clicked the machine again and calmly said, “I’m sorry, who’s this now?”  
  
“Don’t talk,” the man on the other end said. “Not yet. Just listen.”  
  
Martin heard a crack, unmistakably a finger being snapped, and grit his teeth to keep his composure as his son cried out in pain. It sounded muffled, gagged with a cloth or perhaps a strip of tape. He looked up for Mr. David, and the hallway was still empty.  
  
“I—” His voice faltered, and he forced down the saliva gathering in his mouth and tried again. “I imagine this is something to do with me, then, and not my son.”  
  
“Oh you imagine, do you?” the man asked, and gave a deep chuckle. “Your daughter’s pretty, Dr. Whitly. Beautiful. So talkative. Saw her first news segment last week. And it’s funny...you don’t seem to care about her anywhere near as much as little Malcolm here.”  
  
“If this is about money…”  
  
The man broke another finger, closer to the phone, and Malcolm shrieked this time.  
  
“You think this is about fucking money? I don’t give a damn about your wife’s money. This is about you and me. More specifically, you and my mother.”  
  
Martin fidgeted, tucking his hands into the pockets of his cardigan. He started to pace, eyeing the hall again, and cleared his throat.

“Your mother,” he said. “What did I—”

A third snap echoed, and Martin flinched. Malcolm didn’t even cry out, just moaned pitifully.  
  
“What do you think you did to her, Martin?”  
  
“Well, if I had to take a guess,” Martin said.  
  
“Keep it up. Keep that shit up. You know, your daughter’s pretty, but your son? Oh, he’s gorgeous. A work of fucking art, this ass is. Looking at it all, right here. I grabbed him walking home from work, Martin. You know how easy it was? Little thing had no idea what was happening. You should have taught him not to walk alone in the dark. There could be criminals out there.”  
  
“You shouldn’t have him,” Martin said. “You should take this up with me, not him. He’s nothing to you.”  
  
“You’re trying to be calm,” the man told him. “I find that funny. Amusing, almost. But I can hear your voice shaking. And I wanna see how calm you act when you hear me kill him. Because that’s what’s going to happen, Martin. You took my mother when I was nine. And now?”  
  
He laughed again. “I’m going to take your son. You're right that he’s nothing to me. Just another fucker on the street. But to you? To you he’s everything, isn’t he?”  
  
Martin didn’t realize he wasn’t breathing until he suddenly had to gasp, bracing himself on the trolley the phone is on.  
  
“Don’t hurt him,” he said. “I’ll give you what you want, but—”  
  
“That right there,” the man interrupted. “You. Begging. Hurting. That’s what I want. So you’re doing good, Martin. You’re doing real good. Fuck, I’ve been waiting for this for so long. I’ve dreamed about making you pay for what you did. For ruining my life. How does it feel to be helpless, Martin? Feels pretty fucking amazing on my end.”  
  
“I’ve called the police,” Martin choked out at last.  
  
“Let them try to find us,” the man said. “It won’t be fast enough to save him. You hear me, Martin Whitly? Your son is going to die, and it’s going to be your fault.”  
  
It didn't seem real. It couldn't be real. Another nightmare, right? Not reality. His son couldn't be paying for his mistakes. Not his son. Not his Malcolm. “You don’t have to do this!”  
  
“I know,” the man said. “But I want to. And that’s all the reason anyone really needs, isn’t it? Isn’t that why you killed? You just...wanted to? Good enough for me. Listen, Martin...I’m going to put out some tarps...some tools. Really make it nice and comfy for your boy. Set the mood. But I’ll be in touch, alright? Don’t go too far.”  
  
“Wait! I—"  
  
The line went dead. Martin hit the floor, knocking over his sculpture on the way down.  
  
He didn’t hear it smash to the ground, or the shouting in the hallway. He didn’t think about who he killed, who this man might be, anything to help police find him.  
  
Instead, he could only hear Malcolm’s scream, repeating over and over again in his ears.  
  
Instead, he could only think about how his boy was going to die, somewhere alone, and Martin was in prison, unable to do one single goddamn thing to stop it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for rape; it happens "off screen" (from Martin's point of view) but is graphically described.

The police came, setting up machines to do what they could to trace the caller. They swarmed Martin's cell, chattering about, and Martin sat perfectly still on his cot. He stared down at the ruined sculpture and wished it was his own head that lay broken against the tile, and then he didn't think much of anything at all besides—

Malcolm. 

Malcolm.

Malcolm was going to die.

It was his fault. It was all his fault.

His beautiful son should never have had to pay for what he did. 

"Martin." 

Martin flinched out of his thoughts at the voice, looked up at Gil Arroyo and couldn't muster a damn bit of hatred at the sight.

"Are you sedated?" 

Martin blinked slow, and shook his head.

"Good. Then I'm going to need you to focus, okay? We're going to find Malcolm, we just need your help." 

He gave them what he could. He gave them information, names, anything. Gil left, police roamed the cell, and one spat out, "Maybe if you'd thought about not being a murderer, this wouldn't have happened."

His mind worked instantly, picking out ten different ways to kill the man where he stood. He was cuffed and tethered to the wall, but that didn't mean a damn thing when the one he wanted to kill was over the red line, where he could reach, where he could touch. 

And then the phone rang, and the room went silent. Martin jerked to his feet, stumbled in his hurry to get to the machine. 

His tether yanked, nearly tripped him, and he looked down at the painted red line, and the phone just beyond it.

"Answer it," he said. 

The police officer tried to speak to him first. "Remember what we told you about—"

"Answer it, for God's sake!" he shouted, and for once he got his way as they pressed the speaker.

And for once, he found himself speechless. His throat worked, trying to force out any noise at all, and then—

"D-Dad?"

The air left Martin's lungs in a cry of, "Malcolm!" and he heard his son sniffle, and then the man's voice was back.

"He sounds so desperate, doesn't he? The catharsis of this all is...it's really something."

"Robin James," Martin said, and the line went quiet. "That—that was your mother's name, was it not? You're Liam, aren't you?" 

"Wow," the man said. "You said her name like it was nothing. Just...rolled off your tongue, real easy. Fascinating." 

"The police have your address. They're coming."

"Let them. I'm not there, Martin. Special little place all to myself. Well, and my guest. But you're right. I know I don't have forever. So let's get this started, shall we?" 

Malcolm whimpered, and Martin nearly did, too. 

"You don't have to hurt me," Malcolm said. He tried to talk himself out of it, because that's always what he did. Martin's heart ached. "Y-you're angry at him. You should be. He's a killer. But he's in prison, now, and—"

Another finger snapped, and Malcolm cut off with a wail.

"He's not in a prison," Liam said, so calmly. "He's in a resort. You think I didn't see your sister's interview? Isn't that right, Martin? Aren't you just comfortable as all hell? How are you feeling, Malcolm? Comfortable, too?" 

"Not very," Malcolm said. 

"Good! Perfect. Let me explain to you how he looks, Martin, because...oh, it's wonderful. He's laying on the floor. He's naked. I've tied his hands above his head. He looks...terrified, though he's trying to hide it. Aren't you, little one? Oh, yes. He is. Because we discussed in detail what's going to happen now. Why don't you fill Martin in, hmm?"

Malcolm didn't respond, and Martin didn't breathe. There was a shift, a bit of static, and then Malcolm yelled out, "Don't!" 

"What are you doing?" Martin choked.

"I'm touching him," Liam said. "I've got his pretty little cock in one hand, and a knife in my other. You did a lot of things wrong, Martin, but creating him wasn't one of them. He's fucking beautiful."

Martin couldn't breathe. His legs threatened to give out. His voice trembled as he spoke. "Let him go. Please." 

"You sound a lot less calm now," Liam said. "How about when I do this?" 

"No, no—" Malcolm gasped, and then he screamed. 

Martin felt himself break. He didn't need narration to tell him what was happening. Tears formed in his eyes, and blood stained his sleeves as he strained to free his hands. "Stop! Stop it!" 

"Feels too good for that, Martin!" Liam grunted, and Malcolm swore and gasped and moaned. "Oh, it feels really good. Such a tight little ass he's got. Oh, fuck...Malcolm...almost makes me want to keep you alive. You ever get a piece of this, Martin? You sure should have. Too late now, though." 

"Please!" Malcolm cried, at the same time Martin did. 

"I'm begging you," Martin said. And Martin never begged, not ever. "Stop! I'll give you anything!" 

"Two Whitlys begging me. Fuck, that's good. But I told you. You're already giving me everything. So just listen." 

He set the phone down, his voice just a little further away.

"I'm cutting him," Liam said, and Malcolm cried out between the slaps of Liam's skin hitting his. "Blood looks so good on him. Oh, God. Malcolm—scream for your daddy. Come on. Fuck, you feel so good...scream!"

"Help!" Malcolm finally obeyed, choking on his tears, or maybe blood. "Stop!"

"Don't talk to me, Malcolm! Talk to him! Beg him to help you. Tell him this is his fault. Tell him. Tell him! Fine. Let's open you up, should we? Cut straight through to the ribs."

Malcolm struggled with that one, and then at last gasped in pain and gasped, "Please! Dad!"

"That's it," Liam groaned. "How does it sound on your end, Martin? Was that clear enough?"

Martin shook violently, in fear and in anger and in sheer helplessness. "Mal—Malcolm," he managed. "It's okay. It's okay, my boy. Hold on. I love you—the police are coming, they're—"

Malcolm choked, and had never sounded so small and afraid and weak as he did sobbing, "Please! God—stop—no—help me, please, it—D-Daddy, it _hurts!_ " 

Liam cooed something inaudible, and Martin fully, entirely started to cry. The tears he couldn't hold back streamed down his face, and he gasped for air, and Liam laughed.

"Are you crying?" he asked. "Oh, that's fucking rich. That's gonna help me finish. Cry harder. Both of you. Fuck—"

Malcolm did. He cried harder, and Martin fell to his knees, tilting his head back and letting out a scream of rage he could do nothing with. 

He knew he was going to pay for what he'd done one day, one way or another. He knew that.

But he could never have imagined Malcolm would. 

Liam finished with a long moan, and Malcolm let out a last wail of defeat. 

And then it was silent, save for Malcolm's sniffling, and Martin's panting.

"Fuck," Liam finally said. "Oh, that was good. Real good."

"I'll kill you," Martin gasped. "I'll tear your fucking heart out." 

"It still wouldn't save him," Liam said. He recovered for a minute, and then Malcolm gave a muffled whimper, and there was a smacking sound of Liam's lips parting from Malcolm's, and Malcolm retching. 

"Thanks, kid," Liam told him. "Sorry it had to end this way." 

"Don't," Martin said. "God, please don't. Please."

"My mom probably begged, too, didn't she?" Liam asked. "How'd that go for her?"

"I'm sorry," Martin said.

"I'm not," Liam replied, and there was a sickening slice of metal through skin, and Malcolm started to choke.

No.

Malcolm started to _die._

"I'll leave the phone," Liam said. "Not for your last words. I just want you to hear him take his last breath. Enjoy burning in Hell, Martin." 

Martin couldn't say anything for a moment. He could only listen as Malcolm gurgled and heaved for air, as footsteps retreated and a door closed.

And then he was crying again. Sobbing. Pleading. Praying.

"Malcolm, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry—I'm—oh my God, Malcolm, my boy—my son! My son, I—Malcolm, stay alive! Stay, Malcolm, don't—don't you leave me!"

Malcolm just choked, maybe didn't even hear. But Martin kept talking to him, kept speaking, doing what he could.

And then Malcolm went silent. It wasn't sudden. His noises had been getting softer, and Martin had been getting louder to cover that up.

But now there was nothing.

Martin sobbed into his hands, and he swore, and he shouted at God.

God didn't answer. Malcolm didn't, either.

Martin was alone.

Curling into himself on the floor of his cell, Martin was alone.

And he knew now that he would never be anything else, ever again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 3: the alternate ending in which I'm not a twink murderer.

The line was only silent for a minute. It felt like an eternity, but Martin was startled to hear the door of wherever Malcolm was burst open, and the shout of police. 

There was too much noise. Too much fucking noise for him to understand what was happening.

His son was dead. That's all he knew. 

His son was gone.

And then—

"He's still alive!" 

Martin looked up, tears drying on his face, in his beard, and stared at the phone like he could see through it. 

"Malcolm—" he said.

He heard more incoherent shouting, how much blood was lost, that they needed a medic.

And then the line cut off, and Martin was left there, motionless.

For two days, he concluded his son had still died. That he had heard wrong. 

He didn't eat, or drink. He laid in his bed, looked up at the ceiling, and waited to die.

But then they tell him.

They tell him what he hadn't dared hope to be true.

Malcolm lived.

Just barely, Malcolm lived. 

He was hospitalized for over a month, and Martin was only kept vaguely updated.

 _Your son is alive,_ they said.

 _Maybe he can visit you again sometime soon,_ they said.

And Martin wept tears of joy and relief the moment Malcolm finally stepped through the door, two months to the day that the phone had rang. 

He'd lost weight. A thick red scar ran down one side of his face, from beside his eye to his chin. Martin knew there was more underneath his clothing.

But he was alive. 

"My boy," said Martin, stepping forward. "My sweet boy. Please. Please tell me how you are."

Malcolm smiled at him, ever weakly. It was the most beautiful thing Martin had ever seen.

And then Malcolm lifted his head, revealing the horrific scarring on his throat, where Liam had nearly taken his life. 

He touched a finger to it. He opened his mouth, and only the sound of breath came out. 

"You can't speak," Martin said.

Malcolm shook his head. 

"Will you ever again?" 

Another shake of his head, much slower, and Martin was crying again. His shoulders shook, and he came to the end of his tether.

"Malcolm," he whispered. "Please come to me."

With so much less hesitation than Martin expected, Malcolm did. He stepped forward, and leaned, and buried his face in Martin's chest. He trembled with his own tears.

"I'm so sorry," Martin said, and Malcolm's arms came around him. "I love you. Malcolm, I've never loved anyone but you." 

He sank to the floor, on his knees, and Malcolm did too. He cried against his son, mourned what was lost, and Malcolm held him tightly, closer than he'd allowed himself to get in twenty years.

Martin almost didn't want it, if this is what it has taken to get it.

Almost. 

That didn't mean he didn't take it, or enjoy it, or press his face into his son's neck and breathe. 

He wasn't alone anymore. Malcolm was here. 

His boy was alive.

* * *

They found Liam dead after another two months. Every finger and toe broken, throat ripped open, heart cut out while it was still beating.

Martin hadn't left his cell. He denied his involvement to the police. 

"How could I have done that?" he asked when Malcolm came to him. "I can't leave."

 _Friends,_ Malcolm signed. In their visits, which were nearly every day at this point, Martin was now given looser cuffs to wear, ones that allowed for more motion with his hands, so that he could teach him. 

Martin had always taught him so well, and Malcolm had always learned so perfectly.

 _It's a secret,_ he replied, winking. 

Malcolm ducked his head, but Martin saw the smile that lifted the corners of his lips. 

And then at his side, his hand simply spelled out the word, _Good_.

Martin hummed. He glanced at the camera in the corner of the room, and knew he could pay off the deletion of the footage later. He could pay off a lot of people to do a lot of things. 

_He suffered,_ he told Malcolm. _I made sure he suffered._

Malcolm swallowed hard, and his hand repeated those four letters.

_Good._

Martin's chest swelled with pride.

"My boy," he said.

Malcolm's fingers twitched. His hand trembled, just a little. 

"Sit," Martin told him, gesturing. "There's always more to learn." 

Malcolm sat. Martin revelled in the beauty of him, the obedience he hadn't shown in a decade.

He didn't like how they got there. Malcolm flinched at every noise, always on high alert. The scars would fade, but never be gone. 

He didn't like how they got there.

But Martin couldn't lie to himself and say he wasn't enjoying the outcome.

Because with Malcolm's constant visits, his clinging, even the sporadic after-visit hug…

Martin was never alone. He had his boy.

And to his dying breath, he would make sure that never changed. 


End file.
